


shout at the wall (cause the walls don't fucking love you)

by evenicarusflew



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 2021 stream!!, Abuse, Gen, HEAVY SPOILER WARNING!! don't read of you don't want spoilers for tommyinnit's march 1, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tommy Prison Arc, Violence, basically everything you would expect from this stream, c!dream my abhorred, major tw!! check the notes!!, please let him rest, this is very sad boys, will c!tommy ever get a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenicarusflew/pseuds/evenicarusflew
Summary: What if Sam promises he’ll be back next week, but the prison is still not fixed? What if it’s a month before he’s allowed to leave?What’s the point of rolling his boulder up this hill only for it to come crashing down every time?He can’t do this. He can’t stay here. If he stays another day he won’t survive it, simple as that. If Sam doesn’t come back he won’t ever see Tommy again, why can’t Sam just see that, why won’t he just let him out —
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 122





	shout at the wall (cause the walls don't fucking love you)

**Author's Note:**

> HEAVY SPOILER WARNING!! don't read if you don't want spoilers for tommyinnit's march 1, 2021 stream!!
> 
> quick disclaimer: this fic is about the fictional characters the cc's play, NOT the content creators themselves. if any of the cc’s say that they’re uncomfortable with content like this, i will of course immediately take it down.
> 
> this is just a short and sweet fic about the clusterfuck that was today's stream. as such, there's gonna be a very intense tw. if you're not in a space to read this, then don't homie!! it's okay!! drink some water, watch some sick youtube videos. i just wrote this as a vent and because i had a lot of feelings about what happened. stay safe guys!!
> 
> TW// blood, semi-graphic violence, death, anxiety, ptsd, suicidal ideation, mental illness, abuse, basically everything you would expect from this stream. 
> 
> stay safe guys!! hope you like it!!
> 
> title: "jubilee line" by wilbur soot

The despair leaves Tommy breathless. He worked so fucking hard to find some semblance of happiness again, to claw himself out of a never-ending pit only to be pushed back in again and again and again. Doesn’t he deserve this one thing? Isn’t he worth it? Doesn’t his suffering count for anything? 

He had fought, _fiercely,_ to stay alive. To stay free of Dream’s manipulation and lies, to keep himself away from the warm embrace of the lava, even after it seemed more inviting every day. The second he heard Sam’s friendly voice, Tommy foolishly let himself trust him to get him out, to keep his godamn word. He tore all of his carefully constructed mental armor down, and now putting it back on was just too exhausting. 

What if Sam promises he’ll be back next week, but the prison is still not fixed? What if it’s a _month_ before he’s allowed to leave? 

What’s the point of rolling his boulder up this hill only for it to come crashing down every time?

He can’t do this. He can’t stay here. If he stays another day he won’t survive it, simple as that. If Sam doesn’t come back he won’t ever see Tommy again, why can’t Sam just _see that,_ why won’t he just let him _out_ — 

(“Tommy, I’m sorry okay?” Sam says, voice breaking, sounding genuinely apologetic, “I’m doing my best, okay? Just hang in there.” 

And then Tommy hears his footsteps receding. 

Panic, hot and sharp, tears through him. “Sam!” He shouts, rushing forward even though he knows he cannot follow. “No, no, no, no, don’t go, don’t go, _don’t go._ ”

Sam says nothing.

“Sam!” Tommy cries, feeling the hot swell of tears spring into his eyes, “Sam!” In a desperate, last ditch move, he reaches forward towards the lava only to jerk back, clutching his barely-burned hand close to his chest.

“Sam!”

Tommy’s voice echoes back to him.)

_In a time like this, when a man has nothing to lose, do you know what it means? It means we can do what we want._

Tommy’s never had less to lose than he does now.

So Tommy does what he does best — he molds the fear and despair and anxiety into boiling hot anger, a raging fire billowing just underneath his chest that threatens to burn him alive with the force of it, and directs it at Dream. 

Dream, who’s been going on about his stupid ‘revive book’ for the past five minutes. 

Tommy shakes his head, laughing ruefully. “You’re lying, you’re fucking lying.”

Dream snaps from calm and calculated to livid in an instant. “I’m not lying! Why would I be lying about that!”

Tommy doesn’t even think about what he says next. They’re just screaming at each other, trading acerbic words and poisonous accusations back and forth, both on the verge of taking things too far. Of all the days they’ve been stuck together in the prison, they’ve never fought like this — getting physical, trading offhand pushes and shoves, each one with more strength than the next. 

A strange, suffocating tension starts to fill the room. 

“How does it feel, Tommy?” Dream asks, sounding crazed, pushing Tommy backwards with a little more force than necessary, “To know my life is in your hands? Does it piss you off? Does it make you mad?” 

Tommy’s heard this same song and dance before, surrounded by obsidian just like this, an army by his side. “Dream, I know you’re not going to do fucking _shit_.”  He reaches out and shoves Dream back as hard as he can, not caring once about the repercussions like he used to. 

For the first time since he’s gotten here, Tommy is the one in power. Tommy is the one who holds all the cards. 

Dream goes eerily still.

“I don’t think this revive book is real.” Tommy continues, feeling reckless, weightless. “Schlatt? He’s dead. His grave is real, his _corpse_ is there —”

The punch comes out of nowhere. 

Tommy stumbles back, reeling. He cups his left cheek gingerly, feeling it start to swell underneath his hand. “Wait,” He gasps, failing to read the cruel intention etched in every line of Dream’s body as the man goes for another hit, one that connects with his side and sends Tommy sprawling to the floor. “Wait — no, no, no — Dream, no, stop!”

Dream sneers. “Why don’t you go see him in person?”

The next punch cracks his ribs. The one after that shatters them. 

Tommy, already hunched over and shaking on the ground, tries to scramble up and away but Dream is already there, looming over him with that sinister smile on his face — a real one, not the faux joy of his ceramic mask — as he kicks him onto his back and pins him down with a knee to the chest. 

Tommy lifts his hands to shield his face on reflex. All the posturing and wild, arrogant confidence from before disappears as he cowers, begging desperately, “Stop it, Dream, _stop it_ —” 

Dream fists a hand in his shirt, rears the other one back, and shatters Tommy’s nose. 

The pain is immediate and overwhelming. For a brief, delirious moment, Tommy thinks that Dream will stop there _—_ a single, brutal warning punch to get him to shut up, just like exile. 

Dream doesn’t stop there. 

Before long Tommy is coughing on blood, head spinning, agony rocketing through every part of his body, flaring up in white-hot bursts in every shallow, wheezing breath that rattles in his chest. 

A rambling cacophony of terror overtakes any rational thought he has left. _Fuck. Fuck, he’s killing me. He’s going to kill me, he’s going to beat me to death, I only have one life left —_

And then his head cracks against the obsidian floor and everything becomes distant and fuzzy. 

It’s kind of nice, in a way that Tommy knows is a bad sign. The pain is merely a far away afterthought, a steady hum at the back of his mind growing muffled and dim, his brain starting to lose the ability to register it. 

He’s vaguely aware that he’s dying, but he can’t bring himself to care. Gone is the stubborn, spiteful will to survive, the infinitely burning flame of his sheer determination to get back up every time something knocked him down. He might as well be standing at the top of that cobblestone tower, numb and alone and snuffed out, just waiting for that next step, waiting for the snap and release of losing his last life, easy and painless. Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Despite the numbness, being beat to death is still the longest and most painful death he’s ever endured. It’s an arduous, torturously slow process of breaking bones and rupturing organs, one hit at a time. It’s not like getting ran through with a sword, or even burning to a crisp in the Nether — in order for the human body to die, there needs to be enough internal bleeding, blunt force trauma, and hemorrhaging for his body to drown and decay in his own blood from the inside out. 

Dream is just one person. It takes a long, long time. 

Tommy still feels every hit, every broken bone, every bruised and battered limb in excruciating clarity. 

Eventually, it becomes too much to comprehend. His mind starts to drift. 

What did he say, that first day of being locked in?

_You ruined my past, Dream, but I will not let you ruin my future._

But that was before the mechanisms failed. Before that first blast of TNT rang through the prison like the final nail on his coffin, leaving his hopes and dreams and plans for freedom to wither and die within these obsidian walls, the very ones he was getting pummeled into now. 

_You want to be a hero, Tommy? Then die like one._

Who would’ve thought that he’d die like this, alone and afraid and breaking apart under familiar hands, hands that he thought he’d never have to feel again?

Is this how heroes die? Forgotten and discarded, defeated and desperate? Do they die at sixteen, missing a childhood, seeing too much bloodshed and terror and grief for their age? Do they die with their nation, even after it becomes little more than a smoking crater, even after almost every figurehead dies in disgrace and ruin? 

Tommy never wanted to be a hero. More than anything, he just wanted to go _home._

He senses the end before it comes. His vision goes mercifully black around the edges, and his body starts to tingle at the fingers and toes. The rhythmic _thump thump thump_ suddenly ceases, the pressure on his chest miraculously alleviated.

He can’t feel his body anymore. He can’t taste the blood at the back of his throat.

He — 

He can’t — 

_A bench on the precipice of a healing nation. The electric, euphoric feeling of fighting for something with all you are and having it pay off. The warm, soft glow of his older brother’s praise._

_See you soon, Wilbur._

_A quiet, content sigh. See you soon._

And Tommy just —

(Distantly, he hears is a surprised, grief-stricken voice that sounds the strike of a match, like _If I can’t have L’manberg, no one can_. “Tommy? What happened?”)

_—_ lets go.

The last thing he thinks is, _At least I’m home._

Tommy wakes up. 

The first thing he hears is Dream’s voice, filled with the pride and satisfaction of a job well done. 

“See? I told you I could do it, Tommy.”

**Author's Note:**

> this stream broke me into a million pieces. 
> 
> \- inspired by how fucked up i realized 16-year-old c!tommy getting BEATEN TO DEATH by his abuser was  
> \- the ending, aka c!tommy being revived by c!dream, is not canon yet!! neither is c!wilbur's brief appearance  
> \- the ending was heavily inspired by @r5blig's post on tumblr: [tommy's next stream is gonna start with tommy waking up still in the prison and dream telling him "i told you i can do it, didn't it?"]  
> \- it was so cool, show them some love  
> \- i might add another part that's more fluff/comfort, but i'll leave it here for now 
> 
> hope you boys are staying safe!! i hoped you liked the fic and let me know what you think!!


End file.
